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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958498">The Bus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yrelec/pseuds/yrelec'>yrelec</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the Transitverse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bus, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Public Transportation, lauri is competent, smooth scho</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:02:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,674</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958498</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yrelec/pseuds/yrelec</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>William C. Schofield has been taking the 350 bus every single morning since he moved to the City. On this particular morning, a handsome newcomer catches his eye. To say Will falls for him– hard– is an understatement. </p><p>Indulgent Bus au based off of the first stanzas of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AF-Sm8d8yk">"Dommage"</a> by Bigflo et Oli.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lauri &amp; William Schofield, Tom Blake &amp; William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the Transitverse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806415</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Identification and Description</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>...</p><p> </p><p>William C. Schofield has been taking the 350 bus every single morning since he moved to the City. It’s a simple commute: a straight shot from his neighborhood to his work. At only 6 stops, Will probably could have taken his bike if he weren’t so afraid of pedaling straight into traffic. He could have walked instead, but the weather does not agree with him. He could have driven, but he doesn’t own a car.</p><p>Every single morning, after breakfast but before lunch, Will takes the 350 bus to his shift at the library where he spends the day shelving books in the quiet of his own mind, all before returning on the very same bus.</p><p>The bus is generally very normal. It’s blue, with an advertisement plastered along the side and the number 350 in bold white print at the top of the windshield. Inside, the seats are all bright plastic colors. The handles that hang by the aisles swing merrily as the bus jolts along the street. It looks like a small steel model of a bus that a child might have in their toy box. Will knows that it isn’t the same bus every time: the bus driver isn’t always the same stout man, and sometimes the route is driven by a newer, sleeker model, but the basics are all the same, and that’s all Will really cares about.</p><p>Will appreciates this element of routine to his life. He likes that experiences maintain their patterns. It doesn’t matter what kind of pattern it is: if the train is loud, the train must stay loud. If the bus is clean, it must remain clean.</p><p>The 350 bus is one of the cleanest buses Will has ever ridden on. There are three doors on the bus. There’s a door at the front to enter, right next to the windshield and with three small steps. It is followed by an ancient metal Beast that swallows up spare change and a bright red square to tap your bus card to. There’s a door in the middle of the bus, behind the single seats but in front of the double seats perched upon the engine, and that’s the door everyone uses to exit. It doesn’t take your change, but the red square is there again to tap out. There’s a small trash can at the foot of it, but there isn’t ever much trash inside. No one ever brings trash on the bus, because they want to keep it that way.</p><p>The third door is for the bus driver. The bus driver only speaks to yell at people who take to long. He is separated from the rest of them by a metal and glass cage pockmarked with breathing holes, like a lizard in an aquarium. He turns the radio on occasionally. He likes to listen to opera, which Will thinks is fine. He doesn’t really care.</p><p>Not only is the bus clean, but the bus is empty, which Will likes. Not completely empty, of course. The City has a lot of people, after all. It’s calm, though. There are rarely so many people that no seats are left over. </p><p>Will sits in the back. He refuses to sit in the very last row, a behemoth of five chairs that peer vulnerably over the rest of the bus. Instead, he sits in the row just before. It’s a level down, less exposed, and there is only one seat beside him. He sits alone, most days.</p><p>He’s taken the bus like this every morning for over a year, and up until now there hasn’t been any change. This morning, however, there’s another man on the bus who catches his eye. There’s little that’s different about him. He’s shorter, seated at the very last single seat before the step up, with dark hair and a round, childlike face. Will doesn’t know who to compare him to, because his glimpse of the man’s face wasn’t very good.</p><p>Nothing stands out. He’s sleeping, head down and shoulders slumped against the window. He doesn’t snore. Will moves past him as usual, and doesn’t understand why he thinks about him for the rest of the bus ride. He keeps his eyes trained out the window.</p><p>The world blurs past for only five stops before the button is pressed and the door opens with a mechanic exhale. It’s the same man. He taps out with an ill-contained excitement and steps off the bus as if he’s running inside his own brain. Will watches him go as he passes beneath the window, and his smile is wide and bright.</p><p>This strikes him as odd: no one should transition from sleep to on-the-go so easily. Will wonders how he knew to wake up at his spot, even if he’s never taken the 350 before. Will wonders why his face looks blown wide open with the kind of emotional transparency only seen on actors. The man disappears past the back of the bus and Will follows his path until he walks out of range. Will wonders if he has a name, and whether he would give it to him.</p><p>He feels weird for the rest of the day, like a live wire. </p><p>He spends his day immersed in thought. A customer, tall, dark, handsome, asks him for the location of a book three times before he locates in. It’s kind, gentle, but Will is shaken. He apologizes profusely, generates a false excuse, and the man doesn’t seem to mind, but Will still cringes at the thought. It’s difficult for him to readjust. He finds himself drifting off into thought repeatedly throughout his shift. The stranger isn’t on the bus on his way home, and he tells himself that that’s good. </p><p>Will sees him again the next morning. Tuesday. He’s tapping on at the front when he sees him there, sleeping, again. The sun is falling delicately over his features and Will hesitates. He looks peaceful in a way no one has any right to be, tucked into the metal hull of the bus. Will brushes past him quickly, determined to ignore him. He will not make the same mistake. </p><p>He counts the stops as they careen past. He gazes through the gap in the seats at the back of the man’s head. He has a dark cowlick that waves youthfully back. The stranger sleeps the whole way, head only rising mere minutes from his stop. After a quick glance around, the man rolls his shoulder back, smooths down the button-up that had been molded into wrinkles during the ride, and rises, pressing the alert as he does so. The bus stops for him and he descends, once again brimming with frenetic energy so different from his unconscious self.</p><p>This time, while at work, Lauri, his coworker, has to shake him from his daze. She sends him a concerned smile and moves on to helping an older man with the computer. When it becomes evident that that was not enough to rouse him, she cuffs him on the back of the head and sends him to the back for filing. He resents her for it. He doesn’t get much filing done.</p><p>When on Wednesday the man makes a third appearance, Will doesn’t rush so quickly past him. He loiters briefly at the front, hand encircling one of the many bright handles, trying to ascertain whether the man truly is asleep. He thinks so; who would crease their face against the window as such while still awake? He has very red cheeks, Will decides. Like cherries. Will returns to his seat without a word and doesn’t even try to stare at the window when he gets there. </p><p>There must be a word for what William C. Schofield is feeling as he sits near the back of the bus on the straight shot to the library. The metal chariot rattles down the road with them both inside, and the other man only wakes for his stop.</p><p>… </p><p>“Et qu’est-ce-qui t’a mis dans un tel état?” Lauri says, catching him staring at the shelves in empty silence. Will glances up at her, then down at the book in his hands. It’s <em>One of Ours</em><a href="oneofours" id="oneofoursback" name="oneofoursback"><sup>1</sup></a>, Willa Cather, and he’s not even in Adult Fiction.</p><p>Her hair cascades down her back like a liquid. Her name tag is obscured by a lock that has drifted in front of her ear. <em>Hi,</em> it says, <em>my Lau.</em> She probably shouldn’t be wearing a summer dress this early in April. It looks beautiful on her, bright flowers and birds on a pale yellow fabric. She is lovely. </p><p>“Nothing,” he says, and she stares at him in disbelief. She might also be staring at him in disappointment. Her hands are on her hips and while she smirks with impish intent, her eyes are set sternly under her brow. She is more intelligent than he. She knows that a problem exists, and challenges him to lie. </p><p>He also knows that he shouldn’t have answered in English. If his vacant stares hadn’t been enough to clue her in, the English was a dead giveaway. Ever since she discovered that he had taken French back in grade school, she had been adamant about him letting her use her native language. It was a secret code the two of them shared. It was a habit; she could practice English any time, anywhere, but she maintained a strict French only rule when it came to him. In was so she didn’t lose her culture, she claimed. Will was pretty certain she only wanted to torture him.</p><p>“Ne me moque pas, connard,” she says. Her harsh language jolts Will back to the library, and he begins to move towards the appropriate section. She follows. He shakes his head at her vulgarity.</p><p>“Premièrement,” he says, with a sigh, “I’m not a connard. Con, oui, mais connard c’est un peu exagéré.”</p><p>She scoffs. She doesn’t agree with him. He continues.</p><p>“Secondly, just because you refuse to speak to me in English doesn’t mean I have to follow your rules. I am perfectly fine with being lame and monolingual.”</p><p>They reach the section. A small postcard advertises it: ADULT FICTION! The first aisle has the letter he’s looking for. He trails his finger along the book spines with a loving caress, finds C, and plugs the book beside <em>My Ántonia</em><a href="myantonia" id="myantoniaback" name="myantoniaback"><sup>2</sup></a>. Frankly, he will never understand regionalism. As much as he loves war novels, there’s only so much Nebraska he can stand. It always comes as a surprise to him when someone displays the books at the check out counter. He always regards them carefully. It’s often smaller children, he finds, or women old enough to have lived through the time.</p><p>“And finally, quand je te dis ‘rien’, ça veut dire ‘rien’. There’s nothing at all going on. What do I have to say to convince you?” He asks, straightening up.</p><p>She says nothing, only crosses her hands and shifts her face incredulously. She’s always been critical of him shifting between the two languages so fluidly. Despite it being a feat of its own of his prowess in quick thinking, she assumes that it diminishes his fluency in both.</p><p>“Fine. Fine. Tu m’as eu. Okay? You got me. Y’a quelque chose–“ he pauses, struggling to find the words to describe it. “There’s something strange. It’s, well, there’s someone new on the bus–“</p><p>“Il y a toujours des nouveaux sur le bus, et alors?” She cuts in.</p><p>“No, you don’t understand, see, il y a un mec, and this guy is different. I’m not sure how to put it, really, but he rubs me the wrong way. He sleeps the whole time? And he never misses his stop.”</p><p>“Wow,” she nods, “tellement étrange.”</p><p>“No, it is strange. Stop looking at me like that. How does he do it? How does he know when to wake up?” He motions with his hands to make his point, eyes wild. It’s something that’s been scrabbling at the inner reaches of his mind for the better part of the week, just like his questions about how they’ve seemingly perfectly synced their schedules to get the same 350 bus every time, or how the man even manages to fall asleep in the first place. He wants to ask him. </p><p>Turning away, Will grabs the next book from his cart. It’s a teen novel, so he puts it back in favor of one from a similar genre. With any luck, he’ll find another C and he won’t have to go sprinting across the store.</p><p>“Et pourquoi penses-tu que t’es si concentré sur cet homme? Un curiosité insatisfaite? Une erreur dans ta vie monotone?”</p><p>He tries to tune her out, picks up a Coetzee, and fails.</p><p>“Il est sexy, oui? Decris-le. Tu penses qu’il est sexy et c’est pour cela que tu ne fait plus ton boulot. C’est une véritable coup-de-foudre!” She exclaims.</p><p>He shakes her off. That’s not the case, surely. Love at first sight is for the regency novels no one ever checks out from the highest shelves. It’s not real life. Will doesn’t kid himself. This intrusive occupation is no more than a bout of mild attraction. The man is pleasant, but he’s no model. Will hasn’t even heard him speak.</p><p>“That’s not it,” he says, “car sinon je saurais déja son prénom!”</p><p>She leaves him alone after that.</p><p>… </p><p>The next week, every morning, Will stares at the man in a new light. He sees the soft arches of his eyelashes on his cheeks and the pleasant slope of his nose. He sees the way the man wrings out his face as he wakes, shakes the sleep from his limbs like an enthusiastic dog. He wears simple clothing: white pressed button-down shirts that fall from their neat tuck at his waistband and pleated canvas pants. He has the look of a teacher, remarkably old-fashioned in a way that’s endearing.</p><p>Will hesitates even longer by the front of the bus. The driver has to look up at him through weary eyes and rap on the glass between them to get him to move, and he sucks in his breath as he passes. The man is always asleep, and Will wants to know if he’s going to or from work.</p><p>Is it strange of Will to want to tuck this man into his life and carry him until the end of days? Will doesn’t like change, but he’s okay with this. Will is beginning to understand why he can’t seem to tear his gaze away.</p><p>Lauri teases him about it. She tells him that no one should be so infatuated with a stranger, even if the stranger is breathtakingly beautiful. He begins to appease her, begins to lend her snippets of what he’s learned so far. She devours these voraciously, more involved in the mystery than in unpacking the newest shipment of books. Secretly, Will begins to enjoy it.</p><p>Will discovers the man’s short, clipped gait as he hurries to the right of the bus, back towards where they came. There’s a watch that he wears on his wrist that glints like a mirror when it catches the light, held on by a leather strap that enhances the arch of his wrists. Golden rings on his fingers, incredibly vintage and yet so seemingly natural, become an increasingly relevant part of his personality (If Will startles himself one morning, three weeks in, by the thought of pulling each one off his fingers by his teeth, well, Lauri needn’t know). The sharp bite of a chain at his collar is visible only sometimes, when the man adopts a position that has him sprawled more freely along the chair.</p><p>Other times, the man curls up into himself. Will wants to watch him unfurl, wants to see the grin he nearly always carries directed at him. The man jumps from the penultimate step off the bus with such elation Will can almost taste it. </p><p>Will worries that his unbridled focus edges into territory he’s not quite comfortable with, if maybe it would be safer, easier, more respectful to look away and forget the whole thing.</p><p>He worries he might come off as creepy. He hopes desperately that this is not the case.</p><p>“Approche-lui,” Lauri tells him, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to just rouse the stranger and strike up conversation. Her fingers fly deftly over the Dewey decimal labels in the poetry section. She hands him <em>Sonnets from the Portuguese</em><a href="browning" id="browningback" name="browningback"><sup>3</sup></a> and <em>Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair</em><a href="neruda" id="nerudaback" name="nerudaback"><sub>4</sub></a> to read at home. </p><p>“Waking him up would be rude,” Will says.</p><p>“Oui, c’est insolent. Bon rien, c’est moins impoli que de le harceler,” she answers, and he has to reflect on that for a while. </p><p>He purposefully avoids looking for a week after that, adamant that he is not. It’s difficult. He barely lasts till the next Thursday, his skin like ants and his fingers drumming against the window ledge. He’s back to stealing glances soon enough, and he’s comforted knowing nothing has changed. He’s still there, asleep as ever, happy as ever. Will doesn’t think he could stand it if one day the man wasn’t there. It’s like clockwork. The man is now an irreplaceable part of Will’s routine, and seeing him is placating in the way few sights can be. </p><p>Drifting off during his shift becomes more of a problem than he anticipated. He finds himself losing whole hours to his runaway mind, hands engaging in the work with mechanical precision but eyes unfocused and thoughts engaged. He’s glad Lauri covers for him in these moments. She smiles, understanding, and he falls back into a pattern.</p><p>“Something on your mind, mate,” the tall patron says, his accent rich and humorous as he catches Will engaged in another thousand-yard stare. He’s returning a Solzhenitzen<a href="solzhenitzen" id="solback" name="solback"><sup>5</sup></a>, the same book he had checked out over a month ago, but he has his eye on Bulgakov<a href="bulgakov" id="bulgakovback" name="bulgakovback"><sup>6</sup></a> next. </p><p>“What? No, sorry,” Will stutters, struggling to remember what was asked of him. “The Master and Margarita, right?”</p><p>“Yes,” came the patient reply. Will had seen him often around the library, and it struck him odd that the man always asked for help finding the titles he required. He was a frequent arrival: there was no doubt he knew where every book was. </p><p>“Anything else, Mr–“ Will figures he should know his name by now, especially if the enthusiast was starting to take an interest in Will’s life.</p><p>“Jondalar. That will be all.” He says, taking the book from stretched out hands. “You sound like you are occupied by something. Love, maybe? If I may, I would suggest Pasternak’s <em>Dr. Zhivago</em><a href="zhivago" id="#zhivagoback" name="#zhivagoback"><sup>7</sup></a>.”</p><p>He departs, a playful skip to his gait, and he waves at Lauri as he goes. Will checks out the book for himself as well, and carries them all back to his home. He hopes to distract himself on the morning bus, but misses his stop for the first time since his employment and arrives late. After that, he mostly leaves them open on his lap as he stares off into the distance towards a certain someone.</p><p>He’s beginning to understand, now, why pop songs are all about love. Know that he’s had a taste, it’s all that he can think about. He can’t listen to them, anymore: he’s never been more glad for the presence of his usual bus driver, because it means pop songs won’t pollute the bus’s speakers. They seem so superficial: a plastic candy wrapping of a metal husk of an emotion, without any of the gritty proof.</p><p>One day when he glances up from page 123, something’s different. He’s read that same page every day for the past three mornings, intermittently between glances at a curled head. He can’t help but rip his gaze from the last paragraph; every time he doesn’t he feels like taffy. Sticky pupils bounce away from the words and meet pale eyes staring back.</p><p>Will starts. He glances away. He is sure the panic is visible on his face. He feels guilty, like he’s been caught doing something incredibly dirty. He feels dirty. He looks back, and the man is still looking at him. </p><p>His eyes are so blue. </p><p>Will flushes. </p><p>The man’s face floods with a smile, and Will jerks away from his eye line again. His heart beats a harried rhythm in his chest like a war drum and it drowns out the ringing in his ears. He doubts he has ever been so embarrassed in his life. He has to grip his knees to keep them from shaking. They tremble, and it’s all he can do to keep from glancing back again.</p><p>It’s two, three, four stops in, just minutes from when the man has to get off, and he’s early to rise. Will wonders how long he had been staring without noticing, how long the man had stared back. Will feels like he might be on the verge of an anxiety attack. He skims page 123 again and tries to swallow down the jellyfish that swell up from his stomach in pulses.</p><p>He isn’t going to be able to force his gaze down. The bus slows to a crawl by the man’s exit and he’s already looking away, rifling in his jeans pocket for his bus card.  Will calms, satiated by the familiarity. The man doesn’t look back during his descent, and Will revels in the normalcy.</p><p>The next day, it happens again. Will is already staring, this time, when he wakes and glances back. Will freezes, body taught like a spring, but the man only softens. He has dimples in his cheeks, Will notices. The curves around his mouth are harsher than his lips. He looks ever so slightly tired.</p><p>They maintain their stare. It becomes something close to a pattern. Four stops blur past in a peaceful harmony, Will caught in his own private reflection and not a sound to be heard but the warbling soprano of the speaker at the front. The fifth acts as usual. The man descends. The marrow has gone haywire: sometimes the man wakes early, sometimes he barely wakes in time. Sometimes he barely lends a glimmering eye toward the back of the bus. Sometimes he catches Wills stare and holds it like he owns it, pulling it taught and wrapping his hand around it to prevent his escape.</p><p>On days like those, Will lets go, feels himself float up into the clouds like a ballon. He is drunk off the feeling.</p><p>It’s days later that the man pins him to the bottom of his seat yet again. He desperately wishes that the man would come over and speak to him but he cannot bear to stand up and talk to him himself. He’s not sure what he’s afraid of, really. He figures it’s unfounded, a terrible anchor that tethers him to his lonely life, and so this time when the man gathers himself from his sprawl Will shoots him a tentative smile.</p><p>It breaks out over his face like a small flicker of a lamp, but the man catches it in his periphery and begins to glow. Will’s high is immeasurable; he created the happiness that bubbles out over the bus like a tsunami. He didn’t know such a state was attainable without aid. No weed high, no alcohol, no chocolate has ever made him feel so wired. He feels like he’s been turned inside out so that he surrounds the universe instead. He’s proud of himself.</p><p>The stranger gives him a gentle nod and descends, much slower, a languid overflow into the sidewalk. They meet each other's eyes through the window and stay paper thin until the bus rolls away. </p><p>Will considers being concerned about how his emotions run amok. A single smile has his heart thundering down the road and his soul screaming over the City’s rooftops, and he’s fairly sure anything more would be disastrous. He is incapable of interacting with the hot boy on the bus. Even so, he maintains his emotional Golden Age all through the day, even when a book is returned with the cover ripped off and a woman trips in the library, spilling her contraband coffee over the carpet.</p><p>Lauri smiles too. She has no knowledge of the events that have unfolded but notices the shift in Will’s behavior and is happy. Will tumbles through this paradigm shift and comes out grinning, and she steps with him in solidarity. Will thinks this might be one of the best days of his life. He can’t help but love Lauri all the more for it.</p><p>He makes plans for the next morning. He won’t stop at a smile. Maybe he’ll wave, or nod back. The idea of a coy wink sends thrills down his spine. He is exhilarated to imagine himself going over and introducing himself. His fingers itch to hand the stranger the number on his telephone. He doesn’t sleep that night, fidgeting above his bedsheets and staring up at the ceiling. He barely concentrates on breakfast. He all but races to the bus stop, slips under the overhang and slips back out, too tense to stay in one place for long.</p><p>The bus arrives. It pulls up to the stop, overshoots, with a whine, and the three people waiting line up to push on board. The door opens like a pneumatic lung. They step in, Will at the rear, and he fumbles with his card before tapping it to the red square.</p><p>When he looks up, the man isn’t there. </p><p>There’s someone else sitting in the seat, older and stern and sporting a terrible mustache that sits like an old woman’s pug on his upper lip. The man meets his stunned gaze with a glare and straightens his blazer. Will gapes at the front. </p><p>He’d missed his chance.</p><p>The universe comes crashing down.</p><p> </p><p>...</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <h6>No, this fic is not an urban legend.</h6><p>Despite what it may seem, I have actually been writing this. I expect at least a few more chapters. As I'm sure a few members of the 2nd Devons server can attest, there are quite a few words that seem to be missing from this chapter. Don't worry: they'll be updated soon enough.</p><p>Thank you to all of the writers on that server for keeping me motivated, and a big thank you to the sprint bot as well. I'll try to get the next chapter up soon.</p><h6>Footnotes </h6><p><a id="oneofours" name="oneofours"></a>1. 1923 Pulitzer prize winner. Claude Wheeler, romantic idealist and Nebraskan native, feels victimized by his father's success and his comfortable lifestyle. When his wife, Enid, too preoccupied with political activism to care for him like a "proper wife" departs to China to care for her sister, he enlists with the U.S. Army and departs for the trenches. <a href="ownofoursback"><sub>back</sub></a></p><p>1a. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willa_Cather">Willa Cather</a> was a regionalist. She mainly wrote about life in early 20th century Nebraska, and not much else.</p><p><a id="myantonia" name="myantonia"></a>2. Also by Cather. Orphan Jim Burden moves to Nebraska (see! one thing and one thing only) as a pioneer. He grows close with one of his neighbors, Ántonia, and they spend a tumultuous childhood together. <a href="myantoniaback"><sub>back</sub></a>.</p><p><a id="browning" name="browning"></a>3. <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2002/2002-h/2002-h.htm">Sonnets from the Portuguese</a>. Collection of 44 sonnets by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The poems are in English, and she was English, but apparently her husband used to call her "my little Portuguese". You probably know these from Sonnet 43 "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." <a href="browningback"><sub>back</sub></a></p><p><a id="neruda" name="neruda"></a>4.  <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/un/20_love_poems/20_love_poems_english.html">Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.</a> Pablo Neruda's second published work. "Tonight I can write the saddest lines." <a href="nerudaback"><sub>back</sub></a></p><p><a id="solzenitzen" name="solzenitzen"></a>5.   Russian novelist and political prisoner who largely influenced global awareness of Gulag system. Author of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gulag_Archipelago">The Gulag Archipelago</a> and <a>One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich</a>. <a href="solback"><sub>back</sub></a></p><p><a id="bulgakov" name="bulgakov"></a>6.   Russian author and playwright. What I'm trying to say here is that the only this Jondalar reads is Russian lit because I find the concept quite funny. <a href="bulgakovback"><sub>back</sub></a></p><p>6a.   <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Master_and_Margarita">The Master and Margarita</a>. Satan arrives in the largely atheist early Soviet Union with a posse that includes a vampire, a hitman, and a talking cat to wreak havoc. There's an author called the Master who writes a historical novel about Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem who is condemned to a lunatic asylum. His mistress, Margarita, falls in line with the devil in an effort to set him free. </p><p><a id="zhivago" name="zhivago"></a>7.  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_Zhivago_(novel)">Dr. Zhivago.</a> Novel by Boris Pasternak. Not going to even attempt to summarize here because it is way too complex, but it's a love story when you boil it down. If you feel differently, refute me. <a href="zhivagoback"><sub>back</sub></a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. First Contact</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>同性愛者になる.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to the 2nd Devons for reminding me that Tom Blake is weebcentral.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Always clear-headed, Lauri tells him that it’s unlikely. She places her hand on his shoulder like she’s comforting a child. </p>
<p>“<em>William.</em>” She says his name like it’s written in cursive, stressing the <em>âme</em> in a soothingly soulful way. It makes him feel cherished.</p>
<p>“Soyez raisonnable. Même ceux qui ont les plus strictes horaires ont le droit d’être en retard. C’est probable qu’il t’a juste manqué,” she says, all quiet. </p>
<p>“I know,” he replies, softly. They are in the processing room in the back, surrounded by paperwork and on the floor next to the book return shoot. It smells like glue and cotton and the lights are off, and she’s crouching beside him in the safe space. His voice wavers, but only a little bit. He doesn’t like change.</p>
<p>“Rien de mal ne lui est arrivé. Il a peut-être pris un taxi? Ou le metro? Je sais que la majorité des personnes dans la Ville marchent au lieu de prendre une forme de transport.” Her arguments make sense. They make so much more sense than any scenario that sprints through Will’s mind like a greyhound. He thinks of an accident, of the man moving away or changing jobs, of him being disgusted by the voyeur on bus 350.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he whispers, “A taxi, or the subway. He walks fast.”</p>
<p>She smiles, shifting to return to the librarian's desk. “Tu vois? Tu vas lui revoir demain. It’s going to be okay.”</p>
<p>Her switch to English startles him enough that he momentarily forgets his worry. “It’s going to be okay,” he mimics, impersonating the accent she has all but purged. She stresses the ‘i’ and he stresses it more, speaking like a parody of what she could actually be. She shakes her head at him and leaves, and he gets back to filing. The library is planning on hosting an event for special needs readers in the near future, and it is up to Will to organize it.</p>
<p>The day goes past mindlessly enough, and Will is able to compartmentalize. He thinks instead of what he wants to eat for dinner, thinks instead of adopting a cat from the shelter, thinks instead of the terrible covers that disguise the romance novels in the adult section. Not many people come in: a gang of young adults comes in at 11, Jondalar amongst them, and they are surprisingly quiet as they raid the computer section. </p>
<p>Will takes the 350 bus home without worry, sending the bus driver a faint wave and zoning off as it thunders along. When he gets on the bus the next day, fully expecting everything to have corrected itself, he is aggrieved to find that it has not. The same bullheaded man flaunts his seat with a braggart smirk. </p>
<p>Will compartmentalizes again, remembers what Lauri had told him the day before, and brushes past. He ignores the man as he walks past, and ignores the way his thoughts drift to the stranger with the dark hair. He doesn’t see him in this new man’s scarred eye and his wrinkled brow. He refuses to hold a grudge against this statue and his imposter’s seat, and carries on his day a little less happy but a little more concerned.</p>
<p>The next day, he’s still gone. And the next. And the next. Will grows listless, and the patrons notice. They whisper about his mechanical drone at the checkout counter and the way Lauri shakes him twice when they leave for their lunch break. Will cries in the bathroom on a Thursday afternoon and he’s not quite sure why. He’s disappointed in himself, above all. Disgusted, too, that this decency has grown, that his happiness depends on a man he’s never even met. </p>
<p>Melancholy is the word for it. Something beautiful has blinked out of his life, and he was too shy to reach out and take it.</p>
<p>He reflects on the bus. Imagines what it would have been like had either party made a move. There isn’t any use dwelling on it so he moves on, returns to his routine from before anyone every disrupted it. He takes the bus in silence, stares out the window, for six mundane stops. He speaks with Lauri in attempted French. He shelves books. He takes the bus home to his apartment. He sleeps. Overall, he is content.</p>
<p>Monday, he gets on the bus, and to his disbelief, the man is back. </p>
<p>Will drops his bus card.</p>
<p>The man, round-faced, awake, smiling enthusiastically, watches as he bends to pick it up. Will blushes furiously, fumbling along the floor where his fingers refuse to find purchase. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to catch the edge and slip it into his palm; he straightens, and with a discrete cough that fails to protect his dignity, slips past towards his usual seat. </p>
<p>The man’s gaze follows him. He can feel it sear into his back. He places his bag down and glances up, and gapes in astonishment as the man stands from the chair and walks towards the back of the bus. He towers above him, not because he is tall but because Will feels dwarfed by his confidence. With an arm slung up to grasp the handle and another hand clutching his jacket, the man uses his chin to motion towards the seat. This exposes his neck, pale, and Will’s mouth runs dry.</p>
<p>“Can I sit here?” He says, and his voice his higher-pitched than Will would have expected. It’s nothing special about it and yet Will can’t quite comprehend what he’s hearing.</p>
<p>“May I,” he utters. </p>
<p>The man tilts his head in confusion. “What?” He asks.</p>
<p>“It’s ‘may I sit here’,” Will says, and berates himself inwardly for correcting the grammar because it was certainly the wrong decision. Will is an idiot.</p>
<p>The man only grins. “Well, <em>may I</em> sit here?”</p>
<p>Jerkily, Will nods. The man slides in, close enough so that their shoulders brush. The jacket he wears has a strange texture that rubs against the cotton of Will’s shirt. Both of them are wearing jeans. </p>
<p>“I’m Tom Blake,” the stranger announces, voice clear and brilliant. He holds out his hand to shake it and it stays in the air between them for a long moment before Will reaches up to meet it.</p>
<p>“Hello,” Will replies.</p>
<p>“What’s your name?” Tom asks.</p>
<p>“William. Schofield.” Will is still unsure whether this is really happening or not. He stays quiet, let’s Tom, <em>Tom Blake</em>, direct the conversation.</p>
<p>“That’s a good one.” When Will glances at him in confusion, he amends: “Name, I mean. It’s a good name. I’ve got a cousin named William. On my mom’s side. He’s older though, actually, I don’t know your age so only maybe, but he’s definitely less handsome. Not that, like, I am aware of my cousins’ attractiveness? Subjectively. Objectively.”</p>
<p>It takes a moment for Will to recover from the verbal landslide that pours from Tom’s mouth. He isn’t sure if that means that Tom thinks he’s handsome, but he’s going to assume as much.</p>
<p>“Objectively,” Will confirms. ”And I’m sure– objectively– that of all the cousins you are the most attractive.”</p>
<p>Damn. Will isn’t quite sure how he manages to sound put together. His brain ricochets around his skull like a squash ball and he’s having trouble processing things. His heart is out of control.</p>
<p>Tom goes beet red beside him, but instead of falling quiet, he powers through. His smile has grown ever wider his face, splitting it impossibly from ear to ear.</p>
<p>“Definitely not. One’s actually an actor, so he’s got a leg up, hasn’t he. I’m just a veterinarian, which, like, not just a veterinarian because it’s a pretty important job, but I don’t have stylists,” he rambles.</p>
<p>“Veterinarian?” Will asks.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Down by Peele Street and Carding Avenue. I’m just an assistant at the moment but we’re always terrifically busy so I do most of the actual professional stuff too. Yesterday there was a cat with diarrhea. Did you know cats can get diarrhea? It was so disgusting. He went all over the table we had him on and I had to clean it up. You ever gone to the zoo and seen an elephant take a shit? It was like that, practically. It was such a tiny little creature too, 9-pound ginger tabby, angry as all get out.” He seems to catch himself and slows down.</p>
<p>“Sorry, you didn’t want to hear about that,” he says. “It was interesting, though.”</p>
<p>“It’s completely fine,” Will says, and it’s almost more than fine because Will didn’t even have to say anything, Tom just kept the conversation going, and now Will knows that Tom is a vet and good with animals and that cats can have diarrhea (He didn’t really need to know that last one, but the information suits him just fine. He has no idea where he’s ever going to use it).</p>
<p>He takes the moment to scrutinize Tom more closely. He looks worse for wear. There’s a scrape along his jawline and cheek and a Band-Aid on his temple, and his left side looks recently bruised. His palms are abraded and look like they still sting.</p>
<p>“What happened?” Will asks, even though it is none of his business. He really shouldn’t ask. They don’t know each other yet.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Tom returns. He glances down and seems to remember the pain because he winces and presses his palms together.</p>
<p>“Did you fall?” Will asks. He wants to add the part where he adds if it hurt when he fell from heaven, but he figures now isn’t the time or place.</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, sort of,” Tom says, and he sounds embarrassed by it. Will wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to, but he continues before Will has the chance to.</p>
<p>“I crashed my bike, actually, yesterday. It was… not my proudest moment? I was being an idiot and had a very stupid idea and it didn’t execute properly and honestly, I could have avoided the whole thing if I thought more critically about it, but oh well. It’s not too bad. My bike’s much worse off.” It’s a burst of rapid-fire speak, and Will isn’t sure he catches all of it. The bus switches lanes and jolts to a halt as it stops, and everyone in the bus jolts forward with the sudden switch of gravity.</p>
<p>When settled, Will probes further. Anything to keep him talking, he thinks. “How did you crash it?”</p>
<p>Tom looks surprised that he’s been asked. “Oh, uh, the curb. I ran it up it. Ran my bike up the curb, that is. Nothing too exciting. Do you own a bike?</p>
<p>“No,” Will answers, with a shake of his head. </p>
<p>“You should own one,” Tom tells him. And then, the observation Will has been dreading: “I noticed you staring last week. Zoned off?”</p>
<p>Will is left speechless. He freezes at being caught. He feels like a bird: his feathers ruffled sporadically in a crisp rustle of wings.</p>
<p>“Sorry, that’s intrusive,” Tom cuts in. It’s as if he doesn’t notice the awkward situations he creates for himself. If Will is a bird, he’s the gazelle that doesn’t seem to notice Will perched delicately on his back. “It’s just I didn’t fall asleep a few days ago, I’m sure you noticed, and I saw you looking. If you liked the view so much, why didn’t you come to talk to me? Actually, that’s why I came to talk to you. I figured one of us has to go the extra step, right? And it certainly wasn’t going to be you. It honestly wasn’t going to be me, either, I honestly don’t have the faintest idea why I got up to talk to you? You seemed like an interesting person.”</p>
<p>Will swallows. His mouth feels sandpaper dry. He knew he came off creepy, but he didn’t know Tom had given it this much thought. He certainly didn’t expect them to talk any time soon.</p>
<p>“I apologize,” he says slowly.</p>
<p>Tom cocks his head. “For what? Looking? It’s free real estate, baby. I know I’m sexy, you’re just confirming it.”</p>
<p>“No one could be further from sexy,” Will mutters, and Tom must hear it because he lets out an indignant “hey!”.</p>
<p>Will amends. “You’re more beautiful than anything else.”</p>
<p>This must work, as Will senses a minute shiver pass through the point where their shoulders are touching. Tom glances away, stares out the opposite window over the heads of the other commuters and towards the monstrous tumble of the crossway traffic. If Will were to hazard a guess, Tom would be disguising the whisper of pink that decorates his face.  </p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” Will tries again. “I couldn’t pull my eyes away.”</p>
<p>“I’m not as pretty as you seem to think I am,” Tom says.</p>
<p>”You’re much prettier than you seem to think you are.”</p>
<p>“You going you go for it or what?” He responds briskly.</p>
<p>There is little beating around the bush. Will admires him for it. He knows exactly what he wants when he wants it.</p>
<p>Will smiles. He angles towards Tom, exudes confidence even though every organ in his body threatens to press the panic button. “I hear someone wants to go grab coffee later. Is that true?”</p>
<p>“It might be, depending on how this conversation goes,” Tom bites back.</p>
<p>Will hums. “Peele street has a nice place by that bike repair shop. Maybe a certain someone, when they get off work, could stop in on the way to pick up their wrecked bicycle.”</p>
<p>“The Starbucks?”</p>
<p>“God no. Who do you think I am, a cheap cup of weak coffee and a throwaway meal? I’m taking you high class.”</p>
<p>“Is that so?” Tom quirks an amused eyebrow and it arches serenely.</p>
<p>Will stares at it as he continues. He’s practically on autopilot and would assume he was if not for the charisma each line is delivered with. “It’s a real snobby place. Overpriced menu, potted plants, and everything.”</p>
<p>“Thank goodness, I was worried I’d spent my last five minutes flirting with a mainstream capitalist.”</p>
<p>“Flirting, huh?” Will teases. “Looks like I’m making quite the impression.”</p>
<p>“Not every day that you meet a mysterious stranger on the bus,” Tom says. “This is a once in a lifetime event. This might be my only chance to live my rom-com dreams.”</p>
<p>Will can only smile in response. He stares resolutely at the back of the head of the person in front of his, ignores how hopeful Tom sounds, ignores what this could mean for his near future. He is lighter than air and incredibly embarrassed.</p>
<p>Tom only lets the silence sit for a few seconds before he peels it open. “What’s the name of this Hipster coffee oasis you plan on taking me to?”</p>
<p>Will wonders if it’s a conscious thing. It’s possible Tom actively hates the silence that falls between them, that he’s itching to fill the emptiness with noise. It is more likely that he lives for the art of speaking; he is bursting with frenetic energy, like he has more words than he knows what to do with and he can’t help but let them spill out at every moment. He has more words wrapped up inside him that most people Will frequents.</p>
<p>It’s astounding how he’s able to keep them so bottled up inside. He’s like a scrabble scarecrow: vocabulary ripping out the seams and scaring off the lull of the conversation. Will is the opposite. He is cavernous. He calls into himself in search of the words to say, but the well is running dry. Being around Tom, even so briefly, has the overspill flowing deep into his depths and rejuvenating him.</p>
<p>“It’s the Cafe. You’ll spot it. What time are you out?” Will asks.</p>
<p>“I normally finish my shift around 5, but recently Erinmore’s been letting me out early,” Tom says. “So that’s generally a good time. Depending on when you eat dinner. I have friends who eat dinner at like 5 or 6, which is incredibly early if you ask me.”</p>
<p>“I eat dinner closer to 7:00 so you really don’t have to worry.”</p>
<p>The bus stops again and they roll with it, gently falling back in their chairs. The people in front of them descend. Tom still has three stops left.</p>
<p>Tom seems to debate on whether to ask his next question, but asks it anyway. Will is watching him now, unabashed. There a scatter of faint freckles over Tom’s nose. It almost looks like he’s sunburnt. His skin is pale; the translucent kind of white attributed to school children and porcelain dolls. There’s an indentation before his temple that carves into his eye socket like a misplaced dimple.</p>
<p>He says, “So, tell me then, William, what do you do for a living. You have to tell me. I already told you where I work.”</p>
<p>“What I do for a living?” Will says.</p>
<p>“Yeah. What sort of job do you have? Come on, it’s only fair. I bet you have a great one– maybe it’s something selfless like rescuing old women or teaching parrots how to talk– definitely something cool. You don’t strike me as the type to do retail.”</p>
<p>He pauses for a moment, before blurting out: “Wait, let me guess!</p>
<p>“It’s obviously something you enjoy, right, because you haven’t been late yet. There’s no way you’ve been late every time or you would have been fired by now. Nothing outdoors because you lack the tan. Schoolteacher, maybe? No, it’s almost 9:00, schools around here start earlier than that. Plus, GCSEs are finished by now. A firefighter?”</p>
<p>William grins. “I appreciate your faith in my excellence, Tom, but no firefighting is in order for me. Nor could I teach.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Tom says, “I thought I had you. Fine, restauranteur then. Chef. You make these teeny tiny French dishes with posh names and too much sauce that are absolutely to die for and you charge entirely too much for the experience. Three Michelin stars, the whole package deal.”</p>
<p>“Again, nothing nearly so interesting,” Will replies.</p>
<p>Tom sighs. He carries a mock sadness and dumps it at their feet. “I’m out of options then,” he says. “Please tell me, at least, that you are not a lawyer.”</p>
<p>“What do you have against lawyers?”</p>
<p>“My brother is a lawyer. He’s the absolute worst. I couldn’t handle a second one.”</p>
<p>“And if I am a lawyer?” Will jokes.</p>
<p>“Then you are banned for life from meeting him,” Tom states, derisively. “One lawyer is maximum capacity for the family.”</p>
<p>He turns a little red at the last bit as if he realizes too late the implications of what he just said. Will thinks it’s sweet. It wasn’t anything he’d considered.</p>
<p>“Lucky for you,” he says, saving Tom from his mild embarrassment, “I am just a librarian. I don’t think I even know a lawyer.”</p>
<p>“At the public one just a few stops from here?” Tom asks.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Sorry to disappoint.”</p>
<p>“Are you kidding? You are probably so smart. You’ve also probably got mad researching skills. Besides, I thought sexy librarians were just an urban legend until now, so you are already tearing down preconceptions.”</p>
<p>The comment shocks him. Before he can register he slips out a smooth comeback. “In your defense,” he says, warmth creeping up his neck, “I thought sexy doctors were confined to television dramas only. I’m not the only one knocking down biases today.”</p>
<p>Blake takes a moment to digest the comment. He looks at Will as if to question whether Will knows he’s just a veterinarian. Even as Will feels a building pressure to look away, he meets him head-on.</p>
<p>“Maybe I should swing by some time. I’ve been meaning to start on some summer reading.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you should.”</p>
<p>The bus pulls up and they glance over. Amidst their discussion, they had passed a few stops. The electronic chime of the stop rings out, a robotic name called over the intercom, and Tom starts, and stands up. He presses one of the red buttons to command the bus to stop, stretching to reach it over Will’s head by the window.</p>
<p>“See ya,” he bursts out. “Later?” </p>
<p>He barely waits for Will's nod before he leaps down to the center door and passes through it. When on dry land, he turns and sends Will a cheery wave. His smile is so bright it’s like facing the full front of the sun; Tom stands there, enthusiastic, until Will can no longer see him. </p>
<p>Will is drunk on happiness. He wonders if Tom’s relentless energy is contagious: he practically skips from his stop to the library, and the frantic urge to run about with glee remains with him till the end of the day. His smile is so wide when he comes in that Lauri doesn’t even tease in about it.</p>
<p>He finally understands the term “<em>coup de foudre</em>”. He’s got a bolt of lightning writhing about inside him, and he’s going mad waiting for it to burst out.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>The clinic Tom works at is small, boxed in by a faded white placard siding peeling at the seams and bleached by the sun and rain. There is one large window: decals, plastic, of cat silhouettes, creep across in a joyous dance. The sign is simple, Helvetica font, and is lit by a blue backlight that makes little difference in the direct sun that arches from across the street. </p>
<p>Through the window, Will can see the main receptionist's desk and the entrance to a back room. Plastic chairs, a warm brown, are lined up for the clients. Only two are currently occupied. The walls are painted a faint green. The door, glass, with a metal handle that plunges through the panel, is obstructed on the inside by a purple doggy gate that is scuffed at the edges like it has been used for dogs a lot taller than his knees.</p>
<p>Will isn’t sure if he is to wait out front. The sidewalk is narrow; every person that presses by him comes incredibly close and a few even step out onto the street to pass him. The sun is burning his neck uncomfortably.</p>
<p>He opens the door to a metallic jingle above him. The door frame has attached to a series of small metal bells shaped like birds whose tails tintillate gently in their pewter frames. The baby gate refuses to open. The latch catches and refuses to budge, so William chooses instead to step over it awkwardly. </p>
<p>“We’ll be with you in a moment!” A voice chimes from beyond the desk. </p>
<p>Will makes his way to one of the seats and sat down. It is cool against his back and legs. He knots his hand in front of his lap. When that feels strange, he places them palm down on either side of his legs. There’s a pile of magazines on a chair next to him. The top issue, an Animal Health magazine, advertises a diet for dogs to improve their immune system and gut microbiome.</p>
<p>“What are you in for?” The man across him asks. He is older, fifty pounds too heavy, and wrinkled like a prune, with thick sideburns that seem to be more of oversight in hygiene than a stylistic choice. He looks well over sixty, but his countenance suggests and age must younger than that. </p>
<p>“In for?” Will parrots. </p>
<p>“Not prison like. I joke around.” The man as a faint accent. It sounds faintly Eastern European </p>
<p>“I’m just meeting someone,” Will says.</p>
<p>The man tilts his head and huffs. He resembles an older dog or a small bear. </p>
<p>“No pets? This is veterinarian.”</p>
<p>“No, I know.”</p>
<p>He rolls his shoulders and knits his eyebrows together. His mouth opens like a zipper when he talks so that his face matches the appearance of a pile of cloth.</p>
<p>“I have poodle. Beautiful, beautiful dog, she is. Show dog material. She’s going to win something some day, I can tell you that. Beautiful grey color. Wonderfull training,” he brags. </p>
<p>“Is she here?” Will asks.</p>
<p>He shakes his head. “No, no, she’s at home. I am here for TB results. Come in two days after initial testing.”</p>
<p>“TB?”</p>
<p>“She had a cough. Raspy. Has to be in tippy tip shape to compete. Can’t get any other dogs sick, correct? Got her all of the tests to be sure,” he specifies.</p>
<p>Will frowns. “I wasn’t aware dogs could get tuberculosis?”</p>
<p>“No. Dogs can get tuberculosis. It’s very dangerous of them. Not often, not often, but sometimes. Dog may be euthanized if too late you catch it. You see it in old dogs. They get very skinny and have a fever. They can pass it on to humans, which is not good. I have a nephew who is susceptible to these kinds of things. You don’t want tuberculosis.” He prattles on, his voice getting progressively louder. Will is concerned, as the man makes him feel anxious. He debates moving, or even waiting back outside. Before he has to decide, the door at the back of the room cracks open.</p>
<p>It swings confidently and Blake strides out. He heads to the receptionist's desk and discusses something in hushed voices with her. She smiles, coquettishly, and stands, straightening her skirt. She calls out to the man sitting across from him with a cheery command and leads him into the next area.</p>
<p>Blake, job accomplished, sweeps his gaze over the room. It comes to land on Will and his boyish face transforms into a soft smile. He gives a wave, one that borders on shy, and his white coat catches on his elbow. His blue scrubs hang loosely over his frame. He’s dressed a bit like a nurse. Will isn’t sure what he expected veterinarians to dress like. He likes the look; Blake appears calmly professional.</p>
<p>“My shift ends soon,” Tom reassures him. He disappears back inside.</p>
<p>True to his word, Will is only left waiting another five minutes. There a faint music coming from somewhere. Will thinks it might be lofi versions of famous pop songs, which he supposes is smart. He hums to himself, stares down at his sneakers that his boss wishes he wouldn’t wear, and zones out. When the door opens again, he is delighted to see that it’s Tom, now out of work clothes. Tom tugs him along and he stands. They congregate in front of the plastic gate.</p>
<p>“I see you got here without any trouble,” Tom says.</p>
<p>Will gives him a lazy salute. “Safe and sound, and at your service. Should we get going?”</p>
<p>Tom gives a nod. “Yes, let’s get out of here. If Erinmore spots me loitering, he’ll try to drag me back in. Off we go!”</p>
<p>He unlatches the barrier with a swift ease that makes Will regret his own inability earlier. He makes a note to never mention it. He may have to bribe the receptionist: she probably saw. The door opens outwards with a joyful ring. They set off at a brisk pace.</p>
<p>Will is pleased to notice that their natural speed matches. He barely has to adjust to Tom’s shorter stature. While Will takes long, languid steps that cover three or four paving stones, Tom’s clipped, bouncing gait has him walking naturally as quickly. They hardly speak, but their silence feels comfortable. It takes hardly any time to arrive at their destination.</p>
<p>The Cafe is small. It’s exactly as Will described back on the bus: it’s a hipster’s oasis, yellow walls and chalkboard menus and a deconstructed ceiling that displays every pipe and wire that tangles through the place like a museum exhibit. The potted plants are there, succulents and ferns clustered like coffee goers in select corners of the space. The Cafe’s logo is printed in oblique cursive on the doorway. A neon sign flashes: OPEN!</p>
<p>It’s not a particularly unique place. There’s a different book on every table topped by a dozen unlit candles. The counter is a blue glass case that boasts a myriad of deserts. All are pastries that can just as easily be bought at the grocery store twice as cheap and yet these have fully biodegradable packaging. The register is manned by a bored student, college-aged, with a navy uniform polo under his purple apron and an apathetic frown on his face. There’s a mason jar for tips by the till which only solidifies the Cafe’s unoriginality.</p>
<p>Tom orders a Latte. Will notes that he requests no extra sugar or sweetener. He logs the order with precision, hopes that it’s a real order and not just one for safety. When Tom rifles in his back pocket for his wallet, Will makes an abortive motion to stop him. He mentions that he should pay, but Tom brushes him aside with a confidant shake of his head. Tom insists to pay for himself.</p>
<p>The cashier looks at them with irritation as they struggle to come to a conclusion but still remains respectful upon addressing them. Tom finally pulls out his wallet, a well-worn leather two-ply, the money is exchanged quickly and efficiently. Tom uses exact change.</p>
<p>Will debates about getting an Americano. He’s not someone who prides himself on how black he takes his coffee; he just doesn’t like coffee to begin with. What he dislikes most about the drink though is how it’s diluted by milk and creamers. He’d rather stomach down the bitter taste as it is rather than mull about with a poorly disguised rancor in his mouth. </p>
<p>Ordering black is a gamble, however. If Tom, also a black coffee drinker, sees the behavior, Will will be expected to order it often and frequently. If Tom isn’t, Will could come of as brusque and snobby despite his distaste. He can’t not order a coffee. It always pays off to veer on the more cautious side. He orders what Tom orders.</p>
<p>Tom offers to pay for him. Will shuts him off with a firm dissent. His logic: he’s the one who had insisted they go to this place.</p>
<p>They make their way to a table along the sidewall with their orders in hand. A wicker chair sits across from a red booth seat. The book at their table is a Hemingway. The candle is dark pink and reminds Will of the inside of a mouth. When he moves the candle aside, it reveals the obscured title. <em>A Farewell to Arms</em>.</p>
<p>“So if you’re a librarian, what’s your favorite book?” Tom says, taking a sip from his cup. He swiftly puts it down. Will can tell he burnt his tongue.</p>
<p>“Must you ask that?” Will says. “As a librarian, I’m not allowed to pick favorites.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m messing with you. We’re supposed to pick favorites. What did you think Librarian’s Choice meant?”</p>
<p>Tom smiles at that. Will continues. “I’m not so sure, though. I quite like Achebe. Remarque’s <em>All Quiet on the Western Front</em>, too.”</p>
<p>“Really? Why do you like them?”</p>
<p>“Achebe? Or Remarque?”</p>
<p>Tom shrugs. “Either. Both.”</p>
<p>Will has to pause to collect his thoughts. It’s a difficult question. Each author created works of great literature so distinct and unique and yet equally lasting. That largest critic of time had certainly won out.</p>
<p>“Well,” Will commences. There is a weighted pause between this and the rest of his speech. It is difficult for him to decide which to start with. “Remarque is brilliant because of his story. You’ve read it, I assume? Or at least you’ve heard of it? There’s something so engaging about world war literature; I can never seem to put them down.”</p>
<p>The other man nods. </p>
<p>“There’s such a strange connection, more than more other books. It really feels like I am one with the story, and it’s masterfully written so I can read it again and again… I cried the first time I read it.” Will wonders if he has unveiled too many emotions or sentiments for a first date, but across from him Tom still smiles serenely. </p>
<p>Will takes this as a cue to keep going. “Achebe, on the other hand, writes about topics I am wholly unfamiliar with. It’s a setting and culture so foreign from my own and yet the struggles of the characters are ones that are relatively universal. It makes for an interesting read. If you’ve read his African trilogy, which I recommend, it’s interesting to see pre-colonization and post-colonization in a non-victim framework.”</p>
<p>“Non-victim framework?”</p>
<p>“Typically with colonialist literature, you have two patterns that show up. I’m really generalizing here, but you’ll have the white savior mentality of the Europeans rescuing savages from a lesser life and adopting them into a civilized society. You have the offset of that which is: not all Africans are uncivilized but the Europeans are improving so it can’t be a bad thing. You also have literature that victimizes Africans, and while, don’t get me wrong, they were, in a sense, there’s a feeling of helplessness and a lack of characterization that goes along with it, and generally, it’s accompanied with a white Jesus figure who rescues those in need. Achebe makes the story about Okonkwo, his protagonist. The shift in his lifestyle is as much of a problem as his own inability to adapt to it. It isn’t about the white people, it’s about Okonkwo’s people.”</p>
<p>Tom has a look on his face that screams of contemplation. He seems to agree with what Will is saying to a certain extent, but Will grows anxious as he waits for a response.</p>
<p>He interjects– “That may not have made much sense. It wasn’t well explained. I can tell you that it reshaped my view of world literature and race relations.”</p>
<p>“I can see that,” Tom says. “I’ll have to give it a try. Achebe, right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Will breathes out. Now that he reviews his speech, he is overcome with a mild embarrassment. Why did he talk for so long? And about classic theory? He could have made the effort for eloquence and yet he had fallen flat.</p>
<p>Tom shifts in his chair. Will is surprised, frankly, that he hadn’t interrupted more. His earlier references of the man seem to have proven not so accurate. Tom is capable of both silence and listening, even though now he looks as if he longs to fill the silence. Will tries not to think that the reason he was able to listen is because of the speaker, not his innate nature. He does not wish to flatter himself, but the notions makes his heart take off.</p>
<p>“My favorite book,” Tom says, drumming his fingers along the edge of the table, “might be <em>James and the Giant Peach</em>? I’ve always liked children’s literature, and Roald Dahl is a classic.”</p>
<p>“That’s a good one,” Will agrees.</p>
<p>“I’ve read all of his books, even his adult ones. The adult ones aren’t so good. They kind of scare me, to be honest. Does that sound strange to you? It’s not a very adult thing to admit to. I don’t have any great commentaries to give you.” </p>
<p>Tom looks incredibly disappointed in himself. Will can’t help but suppress the urge to reach out to him.</p>
<p>Tom continues. “But that’s okay. You’re a librarian so you’re supposed to like books. I could be a movie geek for all you know.”</p>
<p>“Are you?” Will asks.</p>
<p>“No,” Tom says with a grin. “I can count on one hand the movies I’ve seen this year. Watched one Adam Sandler film and that was enough to put me off them forever.”</p>
<p>Will grimaces in solidarity. They break into laughter, and the people seated around them send them sharp looks.</p>
<p>“I’m not even going to bring up how much I hate Sandler, you’ve said enough,” Will chuckles, bringing his latte to his lips. It tastes sweet enough, the faint echo of caffeine mingling upon his tongue like an afterthought.</p>
<p>“He’s awful. Absolutely the worst.”</p>
<p>“Tell me about it,” Will says. He watches as Tom’s shoulders shake with laughter. The man’s hair has fallen into his face and his eyes have disappeared into the folds of his cheeks with the way he’s squinting. He reaches out, lifting up from his reclined position, and grabs his beverage head-on, skipping the dainty handle. It’s brought to the gap between his white teeth.</p>
<p>Will imagines what his mouth tastes like. Does it taste like his own, faint caffeine and nervous acidity? Nothing seems nervous about Tom. His open shoulders and supernova face scream confidence.</p>
<p>“So, so,” Tom says, pausing between heaving laughs and the sloshing of his cup, “If I’m not a movie geek, that what am I?”</p>
<p>“That’s the big mystery, isn’t it,” Will says.</p>
<p>“Isn’t it just? I wonder what it could be.”</p>
<p>With a shake of his head, Will sets his own cup down. “Fine, I’ll bite. If you’re not a movie geek, and you only read children’s books, what’s supposed to be fun for you? You can’t just sit there looking pretty all the time.”</p>
<p>“Cute. Obviously, as a practicing veterinarian I had to go through a shit ton of education, right, so very little time to develop hobbies and a lot of time to develop depression–“ He cuts himself off, embarrassed at the dark turn of his humor, but stumbles onwards with little hesitation when Will reacts positively.</p>
<p>“But the great thing about a 2-hour sleep schedule lifestyle is that you can cultivate strange interests at 3 am. Will, do you watch anime?”</p>
<p>Will blinks at him. It’s a question he is not sure if he was expecting. He hasn’t watched anime to any significant extent. A past boyfriend had once sat him down to watch <em>Naruto</em>, but he had only gotten through one episode before falling asleep on the armrest. </p>
<p>“No,” he answers, after deliberation. </p>
<p>Tom bears his teeth in an enigmatic smile. It’s impossible to determine if it’s disappointed, embarrassed, or downright predatory.</p>
<p>“Sounds like I’m going to have to educate you on that. You don’t know what you’re missing. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Usagi Tsukino face off against Metaria. Not to mention the, the <em>sheer complexity</em> of Sailor Moon lore.” </p>
<p>Will watches in awe as Tom begins to dive deep into the anime, explaining the most irrelevant details and convoluted plot of a show William hadn’t even heard of before the conversation. It lasts ages, names dropped and so foreign Will can’t hope to remember them later, fights described in a painstaking detail that Will has to wonder if Tom has a photographic memory. Tom barely pauses to take a breath as he relates all of this. His courage is admirable. To unload all of this information, on the first date, is to expose one's vulnerabilities and passions to an extent Will has never witnessed. He retains none of the information.</p>
<p>“And that,” Tom says, some forty-five minutes later, “is why I think <em>Sailor Moon Crystal</em> is better than the original.”</p>
<p>“That sounds really interesting,” Will says. “We should watch it together sometime.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Tom asks, a shy glance delivered after his retreat from excitement.</p>
<p>“Yeah. I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t really understand what you were talking about, but I’d like to find out. You seemed happy about it.”</p>
<p>“It’s a bit of an obsession, really, my brother’s always nagging me about it…”</p>
<p>“That’s okay! Why would he complain?”</p>
<p>Tom looks like he regrets bringing it up, like the next thing to leave his mouth might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Will doesn’t think anything short of fascism could possibly harm his view. </p>
<p>“Well, when I say obsession it’s a bit… intense, right? I’ve got an anime figure collection that’s quite impressive if I do say so myself, and it finds its way into my brother’s space frequently. It’s expansive. He thinks it messes with his “street cred”, you know, like the people he brings home would turn him down upon seeing the <em>Saint Seiya</em> figurines but the television, even though he’s a lawyer and literally so handsome and no one’s refused him before. Well, except for this one guy at the bike repair shop, which was pretty funny, not going to lie, big comeuppance for him. Anyways.”</p>
<p>“Figure collection?” Will asks, not sure if he’d heard it right.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Little 3 inch, plastic, way too expensive for their own good figurines. I’ve got some rare ones, let me tell you. Three-dimensional <em>Bandai Pink 5 Set Biogirl</em> original release figure, limited edition with hand-sewn suit goes for $5,900.00 on eBay.”</p>
<p>“I’m guessing Sailor Moon isn’t the only show you watch, then.”</p>
<p>Tom shakes his head expressively. “Absolutely not. I watch everything. <em>Naruto</em>, obviously, and <em>Dragon Ball Z</em>, plus some better ones like <em>One Punch Man</em> and <em>Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure</em>. Not to mention the more obscure stuff, right, like <em>Hoozuki no Reitetsu</em> and <em>Ground Control To Psychoelectric Girl</em>. I could go on for ages.”</p>
<p>“Which one’s your favorite?” Will asks.</p>
<p>Tom practically slams his coffee cup down. Luckily, it’s empty, so no mess is created, but that doesn’t stop Will from quickly reaching for a napkin. <br/>“How could you ask me that?” Tom bursts. “That’s like asking a mother who their favorite child is!”</p>
<p>“Sorry?”</p>
<p>“I absolutely couldn’t come up with an answer. They are all so good! Well, except for some of those 80s ones, those were awful. But that’s beside the point!”</p>
<p>It’s another half hour before Will can find a way to shift the conversation. Tom talks for ages about the subject, impassioned like few others Will has ever seen. It’s inspiring, in a way, and absolutely adorable even if it means that the man Will has fallen in love with is a Grade A Weeb. Will makes himself a reminder to look into anything he can remember from today: he’s been writing down snatches of information onto the napkin in front of him but would not be willing to make a bet that any of it is spelled correctly.</p>
<p>The conversation flows smoothly after that. Astoundingly, they both feel comfortable around each other and their words meander as freely as a springtime walk. They balance each other. When Will’s coffee cools at the bottom of his cup and the light gloams in the late hour, they take their cue to leave.</p>
<p>It’s with a gentle ease that they walk together to their bus stop. The sky has a silver sheen and Tom’s face glows with each headlight the sweeps across them. The bus is late. Clouds gather overhead. </p>
<p>When the bus pulls up, Will lets Tom go first. The bus is crowded in the late evening so they grab the handlebars and stand in the aisle, so close their arms brush. They swing side to side with the movement of the vehicle.</p>
<p>“Will I see you tomorrow on the bus?” Will asks.</p>
<p>“Certainly. Wouldn’t miss it,” Tom answers. “There’s this really great restaurant by the library. Latin American. Peruvian, maybe?”</p>
<p>“Sounds delicious,” Will says.</p>
<p>“It is. If you want,” Tom blushes, a sheepish inward turn into himself, “It’s open tomorrow at seven. I can make a reservation, but it shouldn’t need one.”</p>
<p>“Is this a second date?”</p>
<p>“In theory, yes.”</p>
<p>Will grins. “Sounds wonderful. I wouldn’t miss it. But there is a danger that I may not be able to find this restaurant. What if I get lost?”</p>
<p>The bus makes a particularly exuberant stop and Tom stumbles closer. His chest brushes Will’s and Will can’t help but flush as he looks down in concern. He grabs his hand to steady him, and Tom doesn’t let go.</p>
<p>“I’ll just have to give you my number then,” Tom says.</p>
<p>Will walks the short path home that night with a new contact in his phone and an elation comparable to an Olympic winner’s. His steps feel light. His heart sings. He never thought he’d have the courage to mingle with the gods, and yet now he returns victorious.</p>
<p>Schofield is endless.</p>
<p>He’s fallen in love, and the whole universe is in his hands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There we have it. The first date and a promise for later. It's gay, but it could be gayer. A huge shoutout to the bardcore community that motivated me and to the rain that has been interfering with all of my plans. A huge shoutout, too, to my 4,000 word essay I have yet to write on "la Comparaison de l’adaptation cinématographique de Germinal (1993) et le mouvement des «gilets jaunes»". We love her.</p>
<h6>Footnotes</h6>
<p>One for today. Brain tired:<br/>1. <a href="https://www.ebay.com/itm/Bandai-Super-Electronic-Bio-Man-Bio-Girl-Pink-Five-Figure-Set-Toei-TV-Anime/283919282343?hash=item421ae870a7%3Ag%3AqfgAAOSwRNde7AtB&amp;LH_ItemCondition=1000"> Bandai anime figure </a></p>
<h6>Fishing</h6>
<p>I photosynthesis comments. I went on eBay for this. Please.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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